Between the Lines
by Hysazu
Summary: Stiles had a way of hearing things people never meant for him to hear. The in-betweens could be cruel, brutal even, and Stiles was smart. He knew they might be lying but damn they were so convincing sometimes.
1. Chapter 1

He had a way of hearing things people never meant for him to hear.

It wasn't because he had any super, wolfy hearing. He was still only human, no matter the company he kept nowadays. Nor was it that he eavesdropped…well it wasn't that he eavesdropped _much_.

It was more like he had a way of reading between the lines, or hearing between the lines as the case may be. Somewhere in his frantic mind there was a translator that interpreted every averted gaze or lengthy pause; every nervous twist of fingers or bitten lip. He could read those signs the way Lydia could read archaic Latin.

This wasn't any new development. It had been one of those weird idiosyncrasies he'd had since he was a little kid. Maybe it was a product of the ADHD. Maybe not.

Either way he really didn't care for it; whatever _it_ was. He didn't like that he still remembered the way his mother's eyes had filled with tears when she told him that she'd only be in the hospital a little while longer before she was able to come home. Even then every tear spelled out the truth to him. She was never coming home, and she didn't. Maybe it was more than the tears. Maybe it was pallor of her once rosy skin, the hollows in her cheeks, and circles beneath her eyes. Maybe it was the way his dad just couldn't meet his eye as he guided him back down the stark hospital corridors.

His scuffed up all-stars, still two sizes too big because he was growing like a weed, dragged against the laminate tile in a vain attempt to prolong the inevitable. His father had squeezed his shoulder a little too tightly. "C'mon, kiddo. We'll visit again tomorrow."

Tomorrow had never come but then he'd known it wouldn't, hadn't he?

Later at the funeral adults had patted his head or kissed his cheeks. They told him things like "this will pass" or "it will get better", but it didn't. Not really. The pain dulled and the emotions that ran so close to the surface sank deeper where they were less accessible but also harder to let go of.

Years passed and he found that when he was busy, insanely busy, it was easier to ignore those things he hadn't been able to ignore before. Well that and when he was on Adderall. The pills helped. They made the world seem a bit less frantic, but it was better when he was busy with school or lacrosse or just talking—running his mouth, really. That's when it was almost too easy to distract himself.

And now there were werewolves and hunters to worry about in addition to all of the normal teenage stuff.

Usually they were a better distraction than school. Sure there was the constant threat of bodily harm always hanging over his head but at the end of the day pain could be just effective a diversion.

Still, even that didn't work all of the time. Sometimes, no matter what he tried, he could still hear all the things people weren't saying.

When his father was fired—he could say it was a temporary leave of absence but Stiles knew the truth—and he said "Maybe I just don't want to feel any worse than I already do by having to yell at my son" he didn't have to hear the heavy sigh his father held back, he didn't have to see the exhaustion written all over his face to hear the in-between. He heard all the reasons his father didn't put into words; heard the pain in the words that never came. _Maybe I just can't bring myself to care anymore. Maybe I'm just too tired. Maybe I just can't stand to be around you right now._

The in-betweens could be cruel, brutal even, and Stiles was smart. He knew they might be lying but damn they were so convincing sometimes. They crept in like a wolf into the sheep's pen, and if he was the slightest bit distracted it was able to savage him all the same. The anxiety set in, then the panic, and the gripping feeling of a hand squeezing his heart, making it hard to breathe.

It was like being paralyzed from the neck down in eight feet of water. The only thing able to move was your mind, and it didn't matter that it was going a million miles a minute. It wouldn't help.

Every breath was a battle. Every rush of oxygen just another struggle to stay afloat, to last another second, and not knowing whether that second would bring rescue or death or just one more second as you fought for another chance to breathe.

"You're thinking too hard about all this."

Stiles flicked his gaze to the man leaning against the desk beside him but for once didn't answer. He'd been trying hard to focus on the screen and not on the creak of the desk beneath Derek's weight, or the tap of his fingers against wood, or the annoyed huff the werewolf puffed out when he was ignored.

The laptop closed with a click and Stiles leaned back, his arms flailing out in protest. "What the hell, dude?"

He had been busy with research; research for this particular werewolf and his pack of misfits, in fact. "Look, I know you think I'm some kind of frickin' miracle worker, but I can't research without my computer."

Stiles could see all of the things he normally saw when he looked at Derek. Frustration. Irritation. Impatience. But there was something else there now. He didn't look quite so irritated; his eyes weren't pinched in the corners nearly as much. It was unsettling. Stiles didn't like that he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.

"You don't need to keep at it like this," Derek finally snapped out, refusing to relinquish the laptop despite Stiles best efforts to wrestle it from beneath his hand. "It won't kill you to back off."

_So that's what this is about_. Stiles pushed back from the desk, his chair spinning haphazardly and almost landing him in a heap on the floor. "Look, if you don't want me all up in your wolfy business you just need to say so!" he shouted. "There are other things I could be doing—" _There's not but he doesn't need to know that_—"besides helping you and your—your—puppies!"

Derek had him pinned to the wall before he could process the fact that he, Stiles Stilinski, was yelling at Derek _I-could-rip-your-throat-out-with-my -teeth _Hale.

But there was no throat-ripping, no screaming, no dying. It was pretty anti-climactic as far as blow-ups went. Derek's eyes flashed red for only a brief second as he leaned in, his hand splayed over Stiles' racing heart. "Calm down," he said, his voice a rumble but not quite a growl.

Stiles, by nature, wasn't calm. He could be level-headed and rational, but not calm. Everything about him was fast paced and excitable; a fast mouth powered by a faster mind.

"I'm calm," Stiles lied even though he knew Derek would hear it in the stutter of his heartbeat. Stupid werewolf senses.

"I don't need you to back off from the pack," Derek told him. "I need you to take a break. You're going to kill yourself if you don't give yourself a chance to breathe."

Breathing. Sometimes that was easier said than done. When you can't think because you can't see past the fear and panic you don't have time to think about your breathing, all you know is that you're not getting enough oxygen and you think maybe this is it. Maybe it's all about to—"Stiles."

"Then go," he blurted out and suddenly he was exhausted and angry and heartbroken all at once. Or maybe he just finally admitted he had been all those things before. He was too emotional to interpret the way Derek's eyes widened ever so slightly, the way his throat convulsed as he swallowed roughly. "Go. I can't _take a break_ with you breathing down my neck."

"Stiles."

"Just go," he said when what he meant was,_ just stay._

"Get out," he forced himself to say when Derek didn't move, even though the in-between said, _please don't leave._

But Stiles was the one who read the in-betweens. Not Derek. Not anybody but him. Derek wouldn't notice the curl of Stiles' fingers in his shirt, the hesitation of the teen's fist against his chest where two warm bodies met. No, only Stiles noticed those things, and right now he really wished he didn't.

He wanted to not have to bite his lip to keep from telling Derek he didn't mean it. He leaned back against the wall to keep himself from following the other man out the window, allowing himself only a glance as the alpha ducked out his window, pausing just long enough to look over his shoulder before he disappeared into the darkness.

"Breathe, Stiles." He paused like he wanted to say something else, something bigger. But instead he clenched his jaw and shifted his gaze up to Stiles' face.

"Just remember to breathe."


	2. Chapter 2

And that's what Stiles did for the next week. He tried to breathe.

He tried to ignore the supernatural. He didn't want to think about werewolves, or kanimas, or crazy old men that should be dead but were probably still running around somewhere waiting to beat the shit out of him again. That would be just his luck.

Instead he focused on all of the things a normal teenager would focus on. He turned off his phone. He played some lacrosse. Started a paper, and caught up on some required reading. He turned his phone back on because he couldn't stand the silence. He led a normal, sixteen year-old's life. It sucked.

And it didn't help.

He could take a break but it just left him too much time to think and to remember. It just left him too much time to...exist.

There was only one place to go when even that seemed impossibly hard.

He waited until it was late in the day and he'd watched his dad back his cruiser out of the driveway and head off to the station for the evening shift before he pulled on his shoes and tumbled down the stairs. He waited until the sun peeked out from behind the tree tops in a final farewell to this grey and unimpressive day before he puttered his jeep down the old cemetery lane and berated himself for not visiting more often. He should have brought flowers. He always forgot. He felt like a bad son.

When he pulled into the parking lot he sat, absently drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he stared across the gravestones and trees. It was a short walk up the hill to the headstone he knew by heart. Two hundred and thirty seven steps out until he got to the headstone of one Mary Wilke, beloved daughter, sister, wife and mother. Turn left and take three hundred and eight steps to the Hale crypt—yeah, coincidences, whatever—then follow the tree line to her.

"Hey mom."

It was the same lame greeting every time. The same tumble of words as he caught her up on everything that had happened between that moment and the last time he'd made the trek out to see her. He'd told her everything he'd learned about werewolves and hunters and kanimas. He'd told her about Derek and his habit of breaking in through the bedroom window. He admitted that it wasn't really breaking and entering if Stiles made sure to leave it open for that very reason.

He'd left out the part about how he'd gotten dad fired—even though the Sheriff was now back with the force. She would have pursed her lips and shook her head at him, a soft slow motion that told him she might be a little disappointed and maybe just a touch mad all while still saying _I love you_. She'd had a way of saying everything at once, even when she wasn't speaking. Maybe that's why he was so good at reading between the lines.

Today was different. Today he didn't know what to say.

He brushed away the leaves that had gathered on the headstone and sat down in the grass.

It was a long time before he finally broke the silence. It was the same old apology just like it was the same old greeting. "I know I always say I'm going to visit more often, but you should know by now I'm full of shit sometimes," he said. "Sorry, I know you hate when I use that kind of language."

He didn't actually know. He'd been too young to have a mouth on him—well that kind of a mouth on him—when she had passed. But he remembered her admonishing his dad when he'd said _shit_ or _damn_. He just assumed she would have had a similar objection when he used the same language.

"It's all gone crazy," he said in a rush that was too tired to be the start of one of his wild tales. "It's all gone crazy and I just don't know where I stand."

Before all this werewolf crap he and Scott had been normal teenagers with normal teenage lives. They snuck out late at night, pined over girls, and wondered what the future was going to bring. There was nothing more important than making first line on the lacrosse team or passing midterms. Sure it had sucked sometimes but at least he had known where he stood; where he, Stiles Stilinski, fit in.

"I'm still just a teenager and a human…" He touched his split lip. "_Very_ human."

He felt so frail and it was ironic because he had been the healthy one once. Now he couldn't even hold a candle to the super, healing powers of the werewolves.

They could get shot and heal overnight. He gets beat up by crazy, old hunter and he's still hurting a week later. What hurt worse was that he hadn't even figured out Gerard's motive. Why hurt him? To get to Scott? He already had Scott under his thumb by threatening his mom; if not Melissa then Allison. He just couldn't get it to all add up, and he'd gotten A's in all of his math classes.

And the sick thing, the horrible thing, was that part of him understood where Gerard had been coming from. The guy was crazy and dangerous and he deserved everything he got but Stiles understood. When you're desperate and dying and there's a cure right in front of you... If he'd known about all this when his mom was still alive…well he's not saying he'd make the same choices as Gerard, but he's not saying it wouldn't have crossed his mind.

"I went and saw the guidance counselor at school. Crazy, right?" He picked at the grass and listened to the sound of a pickup truck rumble down the hill behind him. "Yeah, maybe not," he muttered because he imagined she would have approved of such a thing. It wasn't like he didn't need the guidance.

He remembered when he was a kid how he was always chasing after something or someone. Sure he was tall now, but that hadn't been the case until about halfway through the fifth grade. His mother had always been there with her hand outstretched to pull him along, to let him know she wouldn't leave him behind. And she never had. She'd never left him behind until she hadn't been there to catch up to.

That had been a cruel adjustment.

But he'd still had Scott. His best friend had never complained about waiting for Stiles, had never grown irritated at how hyper he could get. It wasn't in Scott's nature to be impatient. He was too laid back; at least he had been before the bite.

Suddenly he felt like he'd said too much even though he hadn't really said anything at all.

"I don't even know why I'm telling you all of this. I don't even know if you can hear me." He pushed himself to his feet, ran his hand over his face. "Maybe I just feel like everyone's moving at warp speed and I'm standing still…getting left behind."

He looked away because in that moment he couldn't bear to look at the stone in front of him. Logic and science told him nothing he did would have changed the fact that she was buried in the ground now, but guilt doesn't play by the same rules. All it takes is a spark to set that fire ablaze, and damn if it didn't seem like it was going to burn forever. He sighed and ignored the waver in his chest. "I know I shouldn't feel that way. You'll always be here because—" he stopped himself; bit his lip to keep himself from letting the guilt roll off the tip of his tongue. "—because life's not fair."

He had learned that young. He had learned what it felt like to be guilty and heartbroken. He'd seen the way grief could change a person. He saw it every time he looked at his dad, smelled it every time he poured his dad a whiskey to get through the end of a tough shift.

"Don't worry. I'll take care of him," he promised.

The stone was cool beneath the tips of his fingers. "I'll visit again soon," he murmured, wanting to kick himself even as he said it. Same lie, different day.

He kept his head down as he walked back to the jeep; his eyes on his feet, his mind somewhere else entirely.

No one would blame him for not noticing the black Camaro parked off beneath the trees.


	3. Chapter 3

It was four days until the full moon rose above the treetops in the Stilinski backyard; a week before Derek arrived without a word through the bedroom window just after Sheriff Stilinski had finished his "ounce" of whiskey and gone to bed. Stiles knew he should have been used to Derek's entrances by now, but it still scared the shit out of him every time, even when he was expecting it. _Maybe it's the angle of my desk_, he thought to himself.

Derek lowered himself to the floor beneath the window, keeping up the silence that used to make Stiles more uncomfortable than it did now.

"Uh, dude, did you need something?" he asked. It wasn't like Derek to come simply for some Class-A Stiles time. Okay, no, that sounded wrong. Stiles tried to think of another way to put it. _One-on-one bonding time?_ No._ Werewolf and human interact—_definite no. Nothing he came up with sounded like anything other than a description of some illicit meeting between two secret lovers. Resigned, he gave up.

"Derek, what are you doing here? I've done some research but I would have called you if I had found anything useful. That specific triskelion symbol is really old and seriously that's like all I know. Like I'm sure there's more—a lot more—but it's buried and I won't know if anything is worth knowing until I can find it. It's kind of like when a body gets dumped in a bog. If it's an anaerobic environment it'll preserve it perfectly for thousands of years, but you don't know if that's the case until you find it or if it's like completely decayed and disgustir—"

"Stiles," Derek interrupted.

"Yeah, buddy?"

"Shut. Up."

_Back to the normal Derek_, Stiles mused to himself. Ever since that night two weeks ago he had been replaying that visit over and over again in his head. Derek had been…off. Something had been different. Not wrong, just not right. He wasn't sure that made a lot of sense, but whatever.

And he'd been trying to get back to normal himself, though he still had the urge to put air quotes around the word "normal". But when people had started commenting on his shift in attitude he realized he was letting himself slip. He was Stiles, the eternal optimist. The smart one. The friend who got good grades and bounced around with the energy of a two-year old.

Usually it was easier to move on. Usually his bouts of anxiety, doubt and self-loathing were easier to bury. That wasn't the case now, but it didn't do any good to dwell so he did his best to move forward. He liked to think of himself as a glass of water; sometimes it overflowed and he just had to let it run over until enough he'd let enough out to trap it all in again. This time it was just taking longer to let it all out.

He waited for Derek to say something but there was no move by his visitor to do anything other than close his eyes and recline into his normal stony silence.

"Okaaaay."

_This wasn't odd. They were just two dudes hanging out. In complete silence_. Stiles tossed a glance over at Derek, _Yeah, completely normal._He rolled his eyes and turned back to his computer.

He had fallen back into his task with hardly a thought, aside from a somewhat fond_, Sourwolf must be feeling especially sour this evening._There was schoolwork to complete and more things to research. There were always more things to research.

He had started on the triskelion symbol after an offhand inquiry by Isaac, of all people, had sparked his curiosity about the mark that had shown up on the door of the burned out Hale house. That had morphed into reading old documents about werewolves and mythology. Most of it was completely useless, some downright ridiculous but there were threads there that led him off the beaten path of mainstream media and into the old lore. It was fascinating but ultimately devoid of any mention of the symbol's significance.

Stiles lost track of how long they sat there. Words weren't exchanged but somehow it worked. He didn't need to hear Derek's voice; it was enough to listen to the steady rhythm of his breathing or to the creak of a loose floorboard as he shifted. There was a constant influx of stimuli but it wasn't deafeningly loud. It was…manageable.

Later it would be startling how comfortable it was to sit there with Derek in silence.

Silence wasn't a frequent companion for Stiles. Talking was comfortable; it was reassuring. It was a way to make sure people knew he was there, and to make sure he wouldn't get left behind on accident. He had laughed to himself when he realized he was like a wolf in that respect. He was signaling his location to the pack, making sure they could find him. He was a human among wolves, and if he hadn't been doing it long before he'd met them he'd say it was a result of the company he'd been keeping lately.

Later, Derek left as quietly as he had come. A touch on the shoulder, the slightest of nods and he was gone, out the window. _Back to his pack_, Stiles mused though something in the thought stung a little. It wasn't that he begrudged Derek his fellow wolves. It was more like he wished he had the same.

But he had had the chance to be a wolf and it wasn't a decision he regretted enough to change.

At least not yet.

**O~o~O**

These visits occurred more and more frequently in the coming weeks. Mostly they would sit in relative silence. Sometimes Derek would read, other times he wouldn't do anything but sit with his eyes closed. There were times that Stiles would tell Derek about the research and the slow progress with it. Other times he felt compelled to tell him about his day, or about himself. Once he spoke about his mother.

That was the first time Derek had opened his eyes and looked at him. _Really _looked at him.

Stiles was hunched over his desk, eyes fixed on his computer screen as he talked about her so he didn't notice the way those startling blue eyes followed every wave of his hands or clench of his jaw. He didn't hear what Derek heard. Didn't notice the tremor in his voice like Derek did.

"...I know it was grief. People say things, you know? And they make the excuse that it was their emotions or that kids that young don't understand. But I don't really think that's true. Kids understand more than people give them credit for. When you tell a kid maybe if he hadn't been so much of a handful that things might have turned out differently they get that you're blaming them. Or at least I did," he said.

Stiles glanced up, his look guilty when he noticed he had grabbed Derek's attention. "Sorry, kind of depressing. I didn't mean to be a downer."

"No, it's fine." There was irritation in Derek's voice, but when wasn't there? Stiles was getting good at reading his mostly silent companion; what he couldn't know was that the irritation he heard in Derek's voice wasn't at the fact that Stiles was talking, but rather at what he was saying.

He didn't even know why he would tell Derek something so personal. It was something he didn't even like to think about, something he kept close to the vest. Not so long ago Derek would have been the last person he'd ever expect to just _talk _to, but then if the recent past was any indication stranger things had happened.

Tragedy wasn't unique to him and Stiles knew that. He wondered if Derek was as well acquainted with it as he was; he suspected he knew the answer. His mouth was asking before his brain had processed the fact that Derek might not appreciate the inquiry.

The werewolf across the room held his gaze for a long time. His fists were clenched in his lap, his posture tense, screaming at how uncomfortable he was-and that was putting it lightly.

Finally, when Stiles was about to put more room between them, Derek nodded infinitesimally. "Yeah."

It was a single word, but it felt like a million. It was filled with defeat but to Stiles it was anything but. There was someone who knew what guilt felt like, who understood how cruel a companion guilt could be. Someone sitting across from him; someone so real he could touch him.

He didn't ask for more because he knew Derek wouldn't give it so all he did was nod, "I'm sorry."

Derek's eyes flashed up to his. "It's not your fault."

There were better ideas than getting closer to a werewolf who was obviously on edge but there was nothing else Stiles could do. He sank to the floor next to Derek, not close enough to touch but just barely. Stiles wrapped his arms around his knees with a sigh, "It's not yours either."

It was Derek's turn to sigh. "Yeah."

It sounded like an agreement, but Stiles knew the tone. He knew the feeling of the black tendrils of guilt wrapping around a heavy heart. He knew how hard they were to kill, how hard they were to live with. It sounded like an agreement.

But it wasn't.


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles wasn't sure how he kept getting himself into these kinds of situations. How was he, the human with no special healing abilities, the one standing out in the middle of the woods at night? Oh, that's right because no self-respecting, lone alpha would risk challenging a whole group of wolves on their own, and he had been the one to tell Derek and his pack that. He had been the one to suggest this plan.

He seriously needed to rethink his life choices.

He'd come up with it somewhere between the idea of using mountain ash to ward them away from certain places, and telling the Argents so they could deal with the alpha pack while Derek and his wolves laid low. In the end neither idea was acceptable. They couldn't hide forever, and as much as the Argents had messed with him in the past he didn't wish any more ill will towards Allison. The alphas would be a tough fight. Losses were completely possible and Chris Argent would be at the center of it if he were involved. Stiles knew what it was like to lose a mother, and he was well acquainted with the agony of worrying your father might not come home every time he stepped out the door.

A howl sounded off in the distance, and then a second answered it much, _much_closer.

Yeah, those life choices definitely needed to be re-evaluated. And he should probably have his head checked.

His research had been frustratingly unproductive. He was sure that the symbol must have had some records somewhere but he had found nothing. If his instincts were right that was purposeful. It wasn't because nothing existed; it was because someone had erased what had. He had kept his theory a secret so far because he didn't want to it to sound like an excuse, and because he hadn't yet fully given up on finding something...anything.

There had to be more to it. These alphas weren't just barging in to test Derek and the strength of his pack. They weren't here just to acquire new territory. If they were here for either of those things the inevitable confrontation would be over by now. Instead they had been skulking around for weeks now, which meant they possessed some ulterior motive. That was the only reason Derek's pack remained unscathed.

Stiles swallowed hard and ran a hand over his face. He hoped_ he _remained unscathed for the foreseeable future.

There were times he wished he was able to hear the audible things as well as he could 'hear' everything else, and this was definitely one of those times. The woods had grown far more menacing since he realized there were things that used to be fiction running around in them. They weren't as safe as his naiveté had once led him to believe.

A flash of red caught his eye and he felt fear pool in the pit of his stomach. If that was Derek he'd be a monkey's uncle, and since he wasn't an uncle it could only mean one thing. It was another alpha. One that wouldn't have any qualms about killing Stiles.

Though he wasn't quite sure how true that was lately.

He hadn't seen Derek since that night he had accidentally spoken about his mother. Afterwards Stiles had suspected that he had pried into the young alpha's past too much. It really was no surprise when the nightly visits abruptly stopped.

When he'd first lost his mom he was inconsolable and angry at everything, and everyone. He was "fine" if people didn't mention her, if no one tried to offer him their condolences or worse, tell him about all the times they had spent with her. He didn't want to think about her. He didn't want to talk to people. He wanted to forget that this had ever happened to him. And when people pushed he retreated. Just like Derek did.

It had gotten better with time, well at least a little. The years dulled the pain and he wasn't so defensive when people spoke about her now. Still, he could see how someone who had lost as much as Derek could hold on a lot tighter than he ever had. It was a lot for one person to come to terms with and there was a lot to protect. It was hard adjusting when you had people to rely on; Stiles wasn't sure how Derek did it with no one.

As much as he had missed the company Stiles was smart enough to know that if he pushed Derek it would only be in the wrong direction...and if he was being completely honest, pushing an unwilling werewolf was definitely a hazard to one's health. There were things you could rush, like brushing your teeth in the morning, or a finishing a late homework assignment or even a conversation, but you couldn't rush guilt. Or grief. Or allowing yourself to surrender just enough to let someone shoulder the burden for a little while.

Stiles still wasn't quite sure why he felt compelled to ease someone else's guilt when he could barely stand up beneath his own. What made him think he could handle it? What made him hope Derek would let him? Maybe he'd figure it out eventually...if he lived through the night.

He fidgeted and threw a glance over his shoulder praying he wouldn't see someone standing there. The forest appeared empty, but if experience had taught him anything it was that appearances could be gravely deceiving.

This wasn't one of his greatest ideas, and he knew that but it was really the only viable option at this point if they wanted to spur the other pack into action. Maybe they'd be able to catch them off guard, maybe they'd be able to start whatever was bound to happen on their own terms. It was worth a shot, even if it was a long one.

One of the alphas had broken off from the rest a week ago. At first it had seemed likely that it was a trap, but none had been sprung. No assaults had been made and a couple of interactions with the lone wolf hadn't ended with the rest of the pack swooping down upon them. If they could take down the loner maybe they could figure out why the pack was here in the first place.

Of course now that he was actually standing out here in the middle of the woods by himself he admitted that maybe, just possibly, he should have thought this through a bit more...okay, a _lot_more. Sure he could run, but how far would he get before he was overtaken? He was no slacker but he was no werewolf either and he really hadn't signed up for dying painfully before he turned twenty one.

The silence was punctuated by more howls. A chorus of them.

_Shit._

That was his last coherent thought before the forest seemed to explode around him.

In that moment Stiles finally understood what people were talking about when they said everything seemed to slow down in those last agonizing seconds before a horrific accident. All manner of thoughts flitted through your mind like errant butterflies, lazy, unconcerned with what was about to occur. _Did I leave porn under my mattress? Crap, I think I did. I really let dad down this time. I hope Derek doesn't add this to his list of things to blame himself for._

This was not going down the way he had planned.

He remembered how Derek had looked at him like he was crazy when he had explained this plan of his. He had been practically fuming even before Stiles had finished laying it out. Fuming might have been putting it mildly. In all actuality, Derek had been vehemently against his plan.

_"Long shots have worked for us before," Stiles had protested, when Derek had objected at the pack meeting the night before. He supposed he could hardly call it a "pack meeting" when two members were MIA and the rest, except Isaac, didn't actually consider themselves pack._

_"I'm tired of putting the pack at risk based on long shots," Derek had snarled and for once Stiles didn't flinch away from his anger._

_"There's risk either way and in case you have forgotten the members of your pack heal rather quickly," Stiles reminded him._

_"Not all of them," Derek forced out between gritted teeth, anger making his eyes flash red._

_"It's too early to be getting worked up like this. Okay, yeah, so Peter doesn't heal as well yet. I don't know why you're so worried. You wolves aren't the sitting ducks. I am."_

_Derek looked at him like he was stupid. Like he was missing something big._

Just as quickly as they had come those few seconds were gone. The world sped up again as he was shoved out of the way of a snarling, _massive_alpha. Crimson eyes locked on him-why were they always locked on him?-and he swallowed hard.

He heard Scott's voice telling him to run. He heard the snarls and heavy thuds of bodies being thrown together in a flurry of claws and fangs and rage.

He should be running, as fast as he could. _At the first sign of trouble-the first hint-you get out of there,_Derek had told him fiercely just an hour ago. The instructions were clear but he remained frozen in place like a deer in the headlights. Wolves. Deer. Whichever way he added this up it wasn't looking good for Stiles.

He was still considering how he—the deer—would survive among wolves when the forest floor rose up to meet him, courtesy of a warm body tackling him to the ground. He steeled himself for a fight, however short it might be. It wasn't necessary.

"What are you doing? I told you to run!" Derek hissed. If the situation hadn't been so dire Stiles would have told him he sounded like Jackson when Jackson was the kanima. Derek wouldn't have appreciated it then; he would probably abandon Stiles to the other pack if he said it now.

Stiles was dragged unceremoniously to his feet and given a shove. "GO!"

"Derek, I—" Stiles hesitated, turning back towards him. If Derek asked him to stay and fight, he would. Somehow they both knew that.

The darkness made it impossible to be sure but he could have sworn Derek's face actually softened as their eyes met. The sounds of the brutal fight behind them muffled Derek's voice, but Stiles could hear all the things he didn't say when Derek told him, "I'll be close behind. Now GO!"

So Stiles ran.

And he kept running even when his lungs burned. Even though the sounds of the fight didn't seem to fade in the distance. Even when he was certain the alphas were snapping at his heels. He didn't stop running for what seemed like forever. He didn't stop even when he was certain he should have been out of the woods by now.

He didn't stop running until he fell.


	5. Chapter 5

_That summer had been unbearably hot. The days had been sweltering, cloying affairs that threatened to suffocate a person as surely as they would separate them from a day of insurmountable pain. Time had passed, but the sorrow hadn't eased. It blanketed their house just like the heat did. Weeks went by with no end in sight; those weeks morphed into months. Every morning Stiles climbed out of bed and watched as his dad backed his cruiser down the driveway and headed off to the one place that didn't remind him of his late wife; to the one place where he couldn't see her in the face of his son._

_Stiles knew it hurt his dad. He knew because it hurt him too._

_That's why it had been a complete surprise when his father had come into his room on a morning he should have been off to work. There were beach towels under his arm and he was dressed in… shorts?_

"_Time to get up, kiddo. We're going to the beach."_

_Those words had been all of the encouragement Stiles had needed to tumble out of bed. The amount of time it took for him to get dressed and strapped into the front seat of the car was some kind of record but he was just happy he was getting a chance to be with his dad, to get away from Beacon Hills._

_Stiles talked as his dad drove, words tumbling out about school, and Scott's new bike, and the movies that had just come out at the Cineplex. His dad didn't say much but he listened with a small smile on his face, the first one Stiles had seen since the funeral. It was a relief to see his dad smile so he continued to talk all the way to the ocean._

_When they pulled into the parking lot the ocean was an immense, blue expanse in front of them. It was a lot bigger than Stiles remembered. It was all rolling waves and vast emptiness. It was unsettling and comforting all at the same time._

_A person could get lost out there._

_They spread their towels out on the sand. They watched the waves and Stiles built a sand fort, because a castle was just too cliché. His dad fished sandwiches out of a brown paper bag and they ate them together. In between bites Stiles made up stories about the other people at the beach and his dad laughed along with him. It had been a long time since Stiles had heard his dad laugh._

_It was a perfect day—as perfect as they came now. The two of them walked along the beach and watched as the waves washed their footprints from the sand like a giant eraser. They pointed out the sailboats that drifted lazily along the horizon headed for places unknown. Stiles loved to watch them, could watch them for hours. He always made up fantastical stories about where they had come from or where they were going, who was on board and what characters they had met on their journeys._

_When the sun started to sink into the horizon they made their way back to the car, Stiles dragging his feet reluctantly._

_His father patted his shoulder as they trudged up the sandy hill towards the parking lot. "Good break, huh kiddo?"_

_Stiles nodded, "Yeah."_

_As his father disappeared over the crest of the hill Stiles let out a heavy sigh. The day had been good but far too short. It was a break, but even breaks had to end. Now they would head back to Beacon Hills and back beneath the shadow of everything that had happened._

_The sand beneath his feet shifted and before he could catch himself his legs went out from under him and he tumbled down the hill._

**O~o~O**

Stiles woke up the next morning with a headache the size of Texas.

His face was smashed into his pillow and he was still wearing his clothes from the night before. There was dirt everywhere. Whoever had tipped him into his bed hadn't done him any favors; he'd have to wash his clothes and his sheets, possibly multiple times.

He levied himself upright with a groan and debated with himself about crawling back in bed for the rest of the day, but there were voices downstairs and his curiosity—not nosiness—got the better of him.

He shed his torn and dirty clothes for a pair of sweats and a clean t-shirt before stepping out into the hall. He pulled up short when his ankle protested sharply reminding him that the plan he'd concocted for the night before hadn't gone as smoothly as he'd hoped.

His father looked up from a cup of coffee and an animated discussion with Scott about the lacrosse team's chances for next season when he limped down the stairs, "He lives."

"Ugh, barely," Stiles replied, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hand.

His father smiled, "Rough night?"

"Oh yeah," Scott cut in, "We were out late with the lacrosse sticks. Stiles went for a goal and rolled his ankle… but he caught the ball!"

He grinned at Stiles in a way that made him doubt what he thought were memories of the night before were anything more than some weird, hopefully-not-prophetic dream. Except that he had been covered in dirt. His bed had been full of it and he was pretty sure no matter how many times he "rolled an ankle" while practicing with Scott he wouldn't come away that filthy.

That left him with the ugly option that what he thought had transpired last night had actually happened. He had walked a very fine line and only just made it to the other end of the tight rope.

Stiles had so many questions he couldn't ask in present company, so he begrudgingly poured himself a cup of milk—because his father hated when he drank straight from the carton—and slid into the seat across from Scott. His memory of everything after he started running was a blurry haze of more questions. _What the hell happened? Where are the alphas? Where's Derek? _

Scott, as usual, was no help at all. He was engaged in the conversation, his arm flung over the back of the chair next to him with the careless abandon of someone who hadn't been running for their life the night before. There were no furtive glances when the Sheriff wasn't looking; no hints that he had something more to tell when they were alone. He was as calm as ever…like nothing had happened at all.

That left Stiles to try to piece together the events of last night on his own as he listened to them talk.

It had dawned on him the night before how those gazelle on the Discovery Channel must feel as they're being rundown by a cheetah. The complete terror and panic he had felt had been overridden only by the desperate need to run for his life. When he fell he'd thought for sure his life was over. The alphas behind him were going to rip him to shreds and those pieces of him would be the only thing left of the plan he'd concocted.

His dad would have been devastated. Scott too. Derek…well, he didn't really know how Derek would have reacted. There were a lot of mixed signals flying around; a lot of confusion swirling around in his overactive teenage brain. Derek had seemed to have nothing but a strained tolerance for Stiles, at least before he started showing up in his bedroom with more consistency than the family meals he and his dad shared.

Now he could have sworn that the _strained tolerance_ had been exchanged for…something else.

Before last night he would have been hard pressed—harder pressed—to put a name to it. He might have called it camaraderie or friendship; maybe even a meeting of the minds, but he wouldn't have called it love. No, not love. He loved Lydia. Loved girls. At least that's what he'd told himself whenever he tried to put a name to how he felt when Derek had come around. He would have sworn it was one of those feelings; any one of those less confusing things.

But that had been _before._

Before he had time to think about what Derek might have meant when he said '_Not all of them'_ while he had stood freezing his ass off in the woods. Beforehis life had flashed before his eyes as he'd fallen and he realized his last thought had been of the grumpiest, sourwolf that ever lived. Before Derek had turned and Stiles realized he wanted to spend more time making that perpetually grumpy look on his werewolf's face disappear.

Before he realized he thought of Derek as _his_ werewolf.

_Shit._


	6. Chapter 6

The forest floor crunched beneath his sneakers as he walked among the trees.

"You know, there are far too many leaves on the ground for it not being fall," he mused aloud to no one, unable to avoid stepping on the decaying reminders of a time long gone.

He had been walking in the woods for days now half hoping that he'd come face-to-face with a certain disapproving werewolf. But behind every tree was yet another tree and he never ventured to the Hale house even though he found himself heading that way on more than one occasion. He'd called but never left messages. Heck, sometimes he'd barely let it ring. He just wanted to talk, or maybe not talk and just _be._ He liked _be_ing with Derek. It was the one place he didn't feel like he had to talk all the time.

It was more than a crush, if that's what this was. It was more than safety or protection. It was more than a distraction. It was something bigger, but something simpler. It was something he couldn't quite put his finger on no matter how hard he tried.

Scott had been frustratingly vague on the whole Derek subject. "Yeah man, he's fine." "No, he's not pissed." "He's just sorting some things out." He'd recapped the night in an equally ambiguous manner. There was running, and the alpha pack, and a little bit of fighting, but nothing major. Stiles had fought the growing desire to smack his best friend upside the head as he'd listened.

"No wonder you're failing two classes," he remarked dryly when Scott had finished.

"Dude, harsh!" But Scott didn't take it seriously. After all the years they had spent together they were practically brothers. No one knew them as well as they knew each other.

If Scott suspected that Stiles' mind was on the surly leader of the pack he refused to join then he didn't say anything. There was a high probability that he didn't even notice, but if he did and chose not to say anything then Stiles was grateful.

It wasn't that he didn't want to talk through this. He wanted to. He needed the rush of words like he needed air; needed the distraction and the possibility that a constant stream of thoughts might help him sort out this mess.

But there was a time and place and audience for everything, and that was not now or here or Scott. So he walked.

Maybe he should have been concerned that there was still an alpha pack roaming around town, set more on edge than ever by his failed plan. Maybe he should have taken a good, hard look at his own mortality, at his own frailty but that was so not a Stiles kind of thing to do.

"What are you doing out here?"

It was a typical Derek greeting. More demand than welcome, more startling than endearing; the kind that came out of left field and knocked you on your ass if you weren't expecting it, and sometimes even if you were. Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin and he felt his ankle protest as he tripped over his feet in a frantic bid to stay upright. "Shit, Derek!"

Derek's hand gripped his elbow just long enough for him to regain his balance before the werewolf was jerking it away like the contact had burned him. "Stiles, what are you doing here?" he repeated, voice stony.

"Walking, dude, jeez. Why do you care?"

It was the way Derek leaned in—the way those copper-tinged blue eyes locked on him—that told Stiles Derek was far from amused. Not angry but working on it. Narrowed eyes, a twitch in his cheek, the softest of growls. "There are alphas roaming the woods and you thought you'd what, just take stroll through them?!"

Later Stiles would grudgingly concede that the one-shouldered shrug he gave Derek would have irritated him too, had the roles been reversed. Now though… Now he was focused on the way Derek crowded into his space, how he came so close to touching him but never did. Stiles itched for that connection. He wanted that physical bridge. It wasn't sexual. It was…_that_ feeling. The one he couldn't name.

"Well you'll forgive me if I try to clear my head by taking a walk!" Stiles retorted. "I'm still trying to work out what the hell happened the other night."

Derek had the decency to look somewhat guilty. "Scott—"

"Scott?!" Stiles interrupted with a bark of something close to laughter. Sarcastic laughter—something Stiles was good at pulling off. "Riiight. You might as well have left me to figure it out myself. He's not exactly the master of details."

"I'm sure what he told you was more than enough," Derek said, but he wouldn't meet Stiles' eyes. This wasn't like Derek. He wasn't standing before him with the tenacity of an alpha, but with the fragility of a human. The top dog act he put on in front of everyone had slipped just enough in that moment for Stiles to see the man behind it, to see how weary Derek really was.

He knew the feeling.

"Look, Derek, that night… I kind of expected you to…" Stiles rubbed the back of his neck as he trailed off. That night, when they'd been running; when Derek had pulled him to his feet, had told him he'd be right behind. Stiles really thought he'd meant it. He wanted Derek to mean it. Even now. And he was aware that what he was about to say was going to come out awkward no matter how he said it. "Well, I don't know what I expected…but I thought you'd show up."

Stiles studied the man in front of him. He felt as much as heard the sigh of resignation. He saw the slump of Derek's shoulders as the fight went out of him.

"I'm a wolf," Derek forced out, throwing another curve ball. It wasn't the reply Stiles had been expecting.

"Yeah, I got that."

"And you're human."

Stiles waved a hand in front of him like _duh_. "What?! And here I'd thought all this time I was a freakin' fairy!"

"Dammit Stiles! This isn't a joke!" Derek snarled, grabbing his shirt and jerking him forward. His eyes flashed red for the briefest of moments as he struggled, the tremor in his hand the only indication of the inner turmoil he fought.

Stiles didn't try to pull away. It wouldn't work, and he didn't want to. Instead he laid his hand over the fist pressed against his sternum. "Derek, _I know_."

They stood there in silence, Stiles shirt clenched in Derek's fist; Stiles fingers curved over both. The sound of birds and the groan of trees were the only accompaniments to the rasp of air past chapped lips and the muffled thud of tormented hearts.

Fingers worked against the worn collar of a leather jacket in a way that could have been construed as one guy clapping another guy on the shoulder were it not for the brush of skin against skin. That touch was all it seemed to take. Derek's forehead met his with a thump that Stiles would have complained about at any other time, but not now.

He felt the tension beneath his hand and Stiles wished he could just absorb it. He wished he could shoulder the pain, fit it in alongside his own. It might be too much for Stiles to take but it would give Derek some relief. Stiles wanted to do that.

But he couldn't, so they stood their forehead against forehead, just breathing. Just being.

That was all it took. He finally realized what _it_ was, what being around Derek really meant to him. There was some kind of wall that came tumbling down as he stumbled into a truth that had been there all along.

It was relief.

"This isn't working," Derek said suddenly, jerking away.

For a long moment Stiles found himself in the uncomfortable position of being at a loss for words.

"How can you say something's not working when we haven't even decided what that something is?" He asked when he finally found his voice. It was as close to a demand as Stiles came with Derek. He needed to know.

"Derek?" Stiles prompted when he got no response.

"You're a human. I'm—this."

"A werewolf," Stiles supplied.

"Yes," Derek practically hissed, "A _werewolf_; a creature that is constantly running from hunters or in some kind of danger. A single creature that can't protect everyone all the time." His eyes were locked with Stiles' then, silently pleading with him to understand where he was coming from. "I hurt people. I will hurt you…and I can't—"

"No. No!" Stiles interrupted, silencing Derek. "That's not how life works! Don't you get it? Life isn't a guarantee. If you're alive you run the risk of getting hurt or hurting someone or freaking dying!"

Or getting sick. Or burning alive. Or believing you could only protect others by removing yourself from the equation.

He expected Derek to get angry or annoyed. Maybe there would be a snarl or a cuff to the back of the head. Something in protest of Stiles' immediate rebuke.

Instead there was nothing. There was no emotion, and that worried Stiles more than anything. More than running for his life. More than wondering if he'd escape the Argent's basement. Derek was slipping away right before his eyes and he didn't know if he could stop him.

"I won't hurt you," Derek said, but it wasn't the promise Stiles wanted. It wasn't a vow that Derek was going to stay. It was an assurance that he wouldn't if it meant Stiles would see the other side unscathed.

Derek didn't say anything when Stiles gripped his jacket in his fingers. "I don't need that promise. I just need to know that if you do you'll be there on the other side to pick up the pieces."

But Derek only shook his head, and Stiles realized it was going to take more than a simple assurance. He needed to know that the past didn't always have to repeat itself. He needed to know that Stiles realized this was going to be hard but it didn't matter.

He needed to know Stiles wasn't giving up without a fight.

"Can you trust me?" Stiles asked.

Derek's mouth opened before he realized he was about to say yes because he wanted to, not because he did. Trust wasn't easily earned and even tougher to give. He owed Stiles the truth. "Maybe."

The answering smirk told him that was the right answer, or _a_ right answer. "I can work with that if you can."

"Stiles, I don't want to hur—"

"We're working on trust," Stiles interrupted him with the immediate reminder. "All I'm asking for is a chance. I'll even say please… Please."

Derek hesitated but when he finally nodded Stiles felt like maybe he could count this as a win.

He smiled up at Derek and was rewarded with the hint of an answering grin.

Yeah, it was definitely a win.


	7. Chapter 7

It was the one day they always visited together. The two of them didn't speak about it beforehand; they didn't make any plans. They just met at the cemetery in the late afternoon and walked up the hill together. They cleaned off the stone, laid down the flowers Stiles picked up on the way to the cemetery and stood in silence while the emotions time had promised to dull ran just as sharp beneath their skin as the winter cold rolling down off the mountains. His dad played absently with the wedding band he still wore, or cleared his throat, or adjusted the sunglasses he wore on this cloudy, sunless day. Words, if spoken at all, were few and far between.

His dad always left first. He had to get to the station for an evening shift; a convenience Stiles knew was no coincidence but one he couldn't fault him for. This place held memories they often wished they could forget. Stiles watched the cruiser rumble down the drive, raising his hand in farewell when his father slowed at the gate, before he turned back to the grave in front of him.

He stood there with stories on his tongue, with seven months' worth of tales to tell her, but he wasn't quite sure where to start. It wasn't a story he could trace in a straight line from point A to point B. It didn't have an end. At least not yet.

There was the softest of whispers as someone else moved up beside him.

"Sourwolf," Stiles said by way of greeting, recognizing his visitor without looking. It still surprised him how quickly he had learned Derek's habits; how quickly he'd come to know Derek so well as to recognize him just by the way he moved.

Just like he didn't have to see Derek to know he rolled his eyes even as he stepped up next to him.

"What are you doing here?" Stiles asked.

Those were the first words either one had said to the other in days.

Derek had let the years of being alone get the best of him; Stiles had let those little in-betweens convince him that they were fooling themselves. They had walked away, but they always seemed to find their way back to each other.

"There are flowers at my family's crypt," Derek stated, ignoring Stiles' question as he normally did when Stiles asked something he'd rather avoid.

"It was on the way," Stiles replied with a shrug that made it seem like less of a thing than both of them knew it to be.

The two looked up at the sky, looked at the stone in front of them, looked anywhere but at each other. The past several months had been a journey fraught with challenges for the both of them. Derek was learning that just because he couldn't sense something didn't mean it wasn't there. Stiles was learning that sometimes those in-betweens were just little lies. They had good days and bad. They both were learning that was part of the process.

"What'd your dad say?"

Stiles had picked up the flowers on the way and he didn't miss the double take his dad did at the sight of a second bouquet of flowers in his arms. The bright yellow sunflowers were expected; the unassuming bunch of bluebells and ferns was not. But he didn't say anything as his son tucked them in the crook of one arm, leaving the sunflowers pressed against his chest as they walked silently up the hill. He didn't say anything as Stiles paused at the Hale crypt and laid the little blue flowers down to rest against the stone.

His father hadn't said anything about Derek's presence in the past months, and as much as Stiles would like to believe his father hadn't noticed how Derek always seemed to be leaving when he was pulling into the driveway he knew it was really just wishful thinking. His father wasn't the sheriff for nothing. That had been confirmed when Stiles had risen and they'd turned away to continue up the hill.

"He said, tell Derek dinner's at seven on Sundays so don't be late. And to use the front door from now on," Stiles said, imitating the no-nonsense tone his dad had used.

There was an amused huff from the werewolf at his side.

A lot of times when he came here Stiles found himself wondering what life would have been like if it wasn't like this. If his mom were alive, if his dad didn't drink himself into a good night's sleep. He wondered what it would be like if he were just a normal teenager.

The imagined lives, the make believe stories he concocted were always good. They always ended up with a happily ever after. They never ended here in this field of stones.

He had liked those day dreams; it had never been hard to admit that if he had three wishes he'd wish they were real.

Today was different. Today he was torn.

He scrubbed his face and crouched in the grass so he could reach out to trace her name engraved in stone. He felt a soft touch on the back of his neck, felt the curl of Derek's fingers against his skin. It wasn't threatening; it was oddly comforting.

"What is it, Stiles?" Derek asked.

It was hard to explain. Every way he thought to word it sounded wrong. How could he be happy about this path he was on? How could he appreciate his life as it was knowing that her death had led to this moment? It didn't feel right.

"Stiles?" Derek repeated, the question in his tone.

"Huh? No, it's nothing. I'm fine."

It was an automatic response; a practiced habit in Stiles' arsenal of deflections. But the thing about habits is that people learned them. Derek learned them.

"I'm—" Derek huffed out a breath like he was about to say something that pained him, "—calling bullshit."

That was a tactic Stiles had implemented for when Derek's stubbornness shined though, which was most of the time. It was something that Derek had grudgingly accepted, and never used. Until now.

"You what?" Stiles sputtered, looking up at him. He seemed to be having a hard time believing his ears.

Derek pursed his lips together before crouching beside Stiles. "This was you're idea; calling bullshit."

"Yeah, but that's because I didn't think you'd ever use it!" Stiles protested. He waited for Derek to argue, to make some sourwolf comment that might distract him from his original query. It didn't work.

Derek wasn't one to pry. He didn't push Stile with words; he pushed him through his actions, through his preference to pull away rather than give in. This was completely unlike Derek, and it threw Stiles off kilter.

There was no immediate retort, no automatic ramble to distract from the question. The rule was when someone called bullshit they got the truth, even if it was hard. Even if it hurt.

"I always come here thinking—wishing things were different. Wishing she was still alive. I wonder how different my life would be, and I always thought it'd be better…better than it ever could be now. My dad wouldn't drink himself to sleep, would smile more. I'd be a normal teenager." He laughs at that but there's no humor in it. Maybe normal isn't the right word. He, Stiles Stilinski, would never be normal. "I think of all these possibilities, all these scenarios, and none of them are like my life now."

He paused and looked at Derek, noticing the way his brows had scrunched together, the way he wouldn't look at Stiles. His eyes didn't leave Derek's face as he continued. "But this time… I'm… content."

It wasn't enough. Stiles knew it even before the long pause where Derek didn't raise his face to his. But it wasn't so simple. You don't go from bitter and broken to sparkly and whole in the blink of an eye, or even over the span of several months. Maybe you'd never be completely put back together again, but for once Stiles found he was willing to accept that.

He reached out to Derek, touched his jaw with trembling fingers, "I know content doesn't seem like much, it doesn't seem like anything, but it's huge Derek."

He told himself he wasn't sensitive enough to feel Derek's jaw unclench beneath his fingertips, even though he could have sworn otherwise. Relief was evident in the set of Derek's shoulders, in the way he leaned into Stiles' touch ever so slightly.

Yeah, content, and working on something better.

Stiles knew it wasn't going to be an easy road. That much had already been made painfully obvious. It was going to be long, winding and sometimes damn near unbearable. He was going to keep reading between the lines; Derek was going to have times when he blamed himself for all of the things he couldn't have helped; there were going to be time he didn't believe that love wasn't always going to end in heartache.

It was going to be a tough job, but someone had to do it. And he, as a _someone_, wanted that responsibility.

"We're broken people," Stiles said and Derek let out a strangled laugh and nodded his agreement.

He wasn't sure that broken really covered everything but splitting hairs had only gotten him into trouble before so for once he took his own advice and let it be.

"Thanks for coming." Stiles had mentioned this day in passing months ago but he hadn't expected Derek to remember, or show up. He thought it would be the same as it always was. A day that now passed without event, as if everything this day could possibly be had been bled from it the day he and his dad had lost her.

Derek tugged him to his feet; the hand that had rested on the back of his neck now drew Stiles in so he could kiss his mouth softly.

"Is that your way of saying 'you're welcome'?"

Derek rolled his eyes but the quirk of his mouth told Stiles it was. "It's my way of saying 'thank you for bringing flowers for my family'," he corrected and let Stiles kiss him even as the words left his mouth because they both knew it was more than both of those things combined.

They stood there in silence until Stiles tugged at the collar of Derek's leather jacket and suggested they go into town for some curly fries.

"I mean, _really_ broken," Stiles quipped as they started back down the hill.

"We're back on that again?" Derek asked, but his normal gruffness had been replaced with something closer to fond exasperation.

Stiles trotted forward to tangle his fingers with Derek's. "When were we off it?" he asked and smiled when Derek shook his head ruefully.

"But you know what?" He continued before Derek could even think to get a word in edgewise. "For once I just don't freaking care."

And for once those in-betweens didn't try to convince him otherwise.


End file.
